


Better Than Firewhiskey

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: draco dormiens nunquam titillandus [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Primeval
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becker falls in love with Connor one stumble at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Alas, Earwax, my gargantuan Harry Potter/Primeval crossover. You don’t really need to read it to understand this: you just need to know that James Lester is a wizard who worked in Magical/Muggle relations and seized the opportunity to build an organisation that worked in both worlds, but was unable to be open about the differences due to the Statute of Secrecy. When everything went pear-shaped the anomaly project split along Magical/Muggle lines, leaving Lester in charge of the magical team, and Claudia Brown in charge of the Muggle one. As the only Squib in the Muggle ARC, Becker is the only person there who knows the full truth. He worries about everything, but mostly about how to get into Connor’s pants, since Connor’s already got into his heart.

_…it was blissful oblivion, **better than firewhiskey** ; she was the only real thing in the world…_

_-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling_

 

            Connor is the first person Becker hears when he gets back from the holidays. The yelp of "Ow!" could come from no-one else, particularly considering that it issued from the Atrium and was accompanied by a medium-sized bang and a fizzing noise. The labs that front the Atrium on the lower floor are all quiet places, and there are only three offices up above: Claudia's, Jenny's and Miss Wickes'. It isn't too early for any of the three to be in, not on a normal day, but it's the second of January, and in any case, Becker doesn't think any of them are likely to blow things up.

 

            When he jogs into the Atrium, all he can see is Connor's feet protruding from under the ADD, from where a muttered chorus of "Ow, shit, ow, ow" is emanating. Becker crosses the floor and kneels by the spot where he thinks Connor's head must be.

 

            "Happy New Year," he says dryly.

 

            "Uh." Connor sort of half-laughs. "Thanks, mate."

 

            "Are you hurt?"

 

            "No, just... eyebrows."

           

            Becker gets up again, goes round, grabs Connor by the ankles and heaves. Connor lets out a manly shriek of surprise as he emerges from under the ADD, and Becker laughs.

 

            "Hi Miss Wickes," Connor chirps from the floor, and Becker drops his ankles and turns around. Yes, there is Miss Wickes, staring at them both with some judgement, and two hours later into the office than normal.

 

            "Good morning," Miss Wickes says, perhaps a little frostily.  "I hope you had a nice Christmas and New Year."

 

            "Er, lovely, thanks," Connor says from the floor. "Professor Cutter and Jenny had me round for Christmas lunch, which was really nice of them. And we had a New Year party in my block of flats, only Talbot rang about the ADD and it was a party for the kids, really, so I left before the party... put the kids to bed and went upstairs onto the roof with cava." Connor climbs to his feet and runs his hands through his hair. "How about you?"

 

            "It was very nice, thank you," Lorraine Wickes says. There might be a faint flush on her cheekbones or there might not. Becker isn't going to investigate.

 

            They both look at him like they're expecting something, and he clears his throat. "It was good," he says, a little lamely - but it's true. He loves his family, for all his parents grew up in a tradition that was awed by wizards, and acted like his cousin Jemima had won a prize when she turned out magical and he, Hilary, had lost out on the world's most wonderful experience by being born a Squib. Becker spent his teenage years pointing out that they were being horrible about their own parenting, and that he'd met his birth parents and knew which ones he preferred. Since joining the army, he has preferred to remark, at regular intervals, on the tactical disadvantage a wizard with a wand faces when confronted by a Muggle with a machine gun. This time he had the priceless opportunity to say that he'd seen Hogwarts and it didn't look up to much, with the result that Becker's mother had made him polish the silver on Christmas Eve. Cousin Jemima had sneaked into the pantry with him and helped - the Muggle way, although admittedly that was because her wand was engaged in kitchen spells involving mulled wine.

 

            It had been good mulled wine and a good Christmas, and New Year had been fun, and he's sorry he's back at work, but, you know, here he is. He clears his throat again, and realises something. Connor was in before him, and Becker didn't see the night shift technician. "So, Connor, exactly how long have you been here?"

 

            "Er," Connor begins, looking shifty.

 

            Becker holds up a hand. "No, don't tell me. The patches you put in the ADD didn't quite work, or you had a bright idea, or - just do us all a favour and go to bed when you get tired, all right?" He for one is not keen on having to scoop up a snoring Connor from his nest of tools and dog-eared article printouts and carry him to the bunks again.

 

            Connor grins. "I don't _mind_ being carried to bed."

 

            "I'll start adding the pictures to the damsel in distress wall," Becker threatens. The damsel in distress wall in the rec room is going to take over two walls if they're not careful, but right now it only includes pictures of Connor wide awake - or at least unconscious, not sleeping. It goes back quite a few years. One of the first photographs is Connor with an obviously broken ankle being carried away from an anomaly by Stephen Hart.

 

            Connor shrugs. "That's not a threat, there's already a load of pictures of me up there. Let's get a coffee, yeah?"

 

            Becker shakes his head. "Fine."

 

            _But you need a life, Connor_ , he carefully doesn't add, as the two of them walk down to the rec room. And he carefully doesn't think about how, when he was cleaning the silver with Jemima and she'd asked him if he had anyone special right now, he hadn't wanted to say no.

 

***

 

            The next time he goes out to buy a sandwich, he picks up one for Connor, who has been writing code for six hours and is beginning to look a bit bloodshot. He also takes a bottle of water and an energy bar. Ditzy has been definite on the subject of keeping an eye out for scientists with no notion of when to stop, and while that technically refers to keeping them uninjured in the field, Ditzy doesn't interpret it that narrowly, and neither does Becker. 

 

            "Oh," Connor says, blinking at him, and a grin spreads across his face. "Thanks."

 

            Becker shrugs and walks away, but the next time there's a shortage of his favourite chocolate HobNobs, Connor pings him an email, forwarding Dr Butterworth's complaint to Miss Wickes about failures in stocking the kitchen with such basics, which he has passive-aggressively cc'd to the entire office. Connor's reply is just for Becker, and it says _Bottom left drawer of my desk ;)_.

 

            Connor's office is a horrifying tip full of things Becker is afraid to touch in case they explode, but he looks in the aforementioned drawer and finds a packet of chocolate HobNobs just for him.

 

            When Connor gets back from his meeting with Claudia Brown and various flavours of lawyer about patents and his research, Becker tracks him down and thanks him.

           

            "No problem," Connor says, with one of his bright easy smiles. "I owe you for the sandwich the other day. And also the meeting was really boring."

 

            Becker slaps his forehead. "Connor! They were talking about who owns your stuff!"

 

            "I know, mate, I'm not dumb," Connor says. "I waited for the break. They spent forty-five minutes networking and trying to get information out of Claudia, she told me to stand in a corner and not tell anyone anything they didn't already know."

 

            "Right," Becker says. Well, that's not flattering, but it certainly sounds like Claudia, and it's true that if you get Connor into a subject he's interested in he will go on for hours, and probably accidentally betray a few hundred things he didn't really mean to.

 

            "Is there a betting pool on what Miss Wickes is going to do to Butterworth?" Connor asks. "For being, you know -"

 

            "A complete cock?" Becker supplies. "Yes. Finn's got it. He's taking two to one odds on allocating all his meetings to the manky boardroom in the basement, four to one on a personal meeting to scare the shit out of him, and ten to one on arranging for his performance review to come up early. He also took twenty to one on poisoning his coffee but he wouldn't have installing Butterworth-shaped targets on the range."

 

            Connor frowns. "Really?"

 

            "Yeah. Miss Brown overheard and said it would be a waste of good card and she wouldn't authorise the expenditure."

 

            Connor tips his head to one side and frowns judiciously, almost losing his hat. "Fair." He shakes his head. "What did you go for?"

 

            "Personal meeting. Easiest to prove."

 

            "Also fair, but she's subtle, Miss Wickes."

 

            Becker grins. "Yeah. Anyway, thanks again for the biscuits."

 

***

           

            A couple of weeks later, everyone's going down the pub after a rough day. Except Becker. Becker isn't, and he tells Danny as much, when the ginger git sticks his head around the office door and expresses concern.

 

            Becker's got a letter of condolence to write. He'll make a personal visit over the weekend, but he knows the major will already be down there, at that little house near Hereford. Ericsson had two brothers and a mum, a niece and a nephew and a new girlfriend he thought the world of, and he was twenty-three and fucking gifted, and he made one tiny, tiny little mistake, and in fixing it he managed to save the kid he'd gone in to rescue, but he didn't manage to save himself.

 

            Becker's got a letter of condolence to write, and after that, he's got a bottle of Old Ogden's Firewhiskey Jemima gave him, and he might make an appearance at the pub later. But not now. That particular pub excursion is mostly for benefit of the civilians, and they'll be fine without Becker. Really, they will.

 

            Becker can barely muster the energy to tell Danny to fuck off.

 

            The next thing he knows Connor's slipping through the door.

 

            " _Connor_? What. _No_. Look, did Quinn send you, or -"

 

            Connor shakes his head, and drags the other chair in Becker's office over, setting himself up with a bunch of printed-out articles and a highlighter. "Quinn said you were stewing and to leave you alone."

 

            Becker rubs his hands over his forehead. "So you are here because...?"

 

            "I think you're going to drown your sorrows, and I don't want you to drink alone." Connor is now focussing on the papers in front of him, but Becker can see the tension in his shoulders, his bent dark head, and he realises - Connor's been on the anomaly project three years, and he's seen this before. He knew Ryan well and he was close to Stephen; he's Cutter's protégé, and Becker's fairly sure that Cutter's a man who drinks his misery like it's going to help. There's a wall of names upstairs; Ericsson's probably just been added to it. Every single name is one Connor would have known.

 

            This is something Connor's seen before, even if he hasn't taken part in it. Becker's noticed that Connor's not much of a drinker, preferring to hang back and make cracks about his own status as a lightweight.

 

            Connor's meeting his eyes right now. He looks a little like he thinks Becker's going to throw him out. Becker's not going to do any such thing.

 

            "Thanks, Connor," he says quietly. "I appreciate it."

 

            He finishes his letter of condolence, makes it as immaculate as he can, and then puts it in the post. Claudia's already written one, he knows. She's very good at them. She manages to remember something relevant and charming about everyone.

 

            He takes two glasses back to his office for the Firewhiskey, and doesn't drink as much as he would have done alone. Quite apart from anything else, he has to explain away Firewhiskey without breaking the International Statute of Secrecy ("my cousin bought it for me, I don't know where it's from"). They talk, mostly about nothing very much. Neither of them knew a lot about Ericsson, besides his girlfriend's name and the football team he supported. This isn't a wake.

 

            At about one in the morning, Connor staggers up and declares that they ought to go to the bunk rooms. He drags Becker to the kitchen and insists on making hot chocolate, and then he insists that Becker should do the vital work of watching mugs of milk spin around a microwave while he, Connor, digs out their things for the night, and then he insists that Becker has to share his bunk room, the one that has become more or less tailored to Connor's tastes. There used to be a bunk above Connor's marked with Abby's things, but the fleece blanket patterned with tortoises and turtles is gone, and so is the knitted stegosaurus someone made her for Secret Santa one year, and the alarm clock that Connor says had a really annoying tone. There are two other bunks, and the top one's got a sturdy plaid blanket and a reading lamp and a bunch of books scattered over it. Cutter's, if he were here, but the bottom one is as plain as Abby's empty bed.

 

            "Stephen used to sleep there," Connor says, throwing a t-shirt and a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms at Becker. "Back when we first got these we got a bit overexcited and pulled a few more all-nighters than we should've done." He grins. "Lester got quite grumpy."

 

            Becker gestures vaguely. The Firewhiskey he did have is catching up with him. "Quinn doesn't sleep there?"

 

            "He's got his own. Which nobody tried to claim before. He could have Abby's, but Stephen's gives him the fidgets."

 

            "Oh," Becker says, and there's a long moment of silence.

 

            "It's just such a fucking waste," he says at last, and then tries to stare at his own mouth in surprise. Did he really say that?

 

            "Yeah," Connor says, and passes along a bottle of water. "Come on, mate. We need to go to bed."

 

            Part of Becker wants to ask to share - Becker really wishes he wasn't sleeping alone tonight - but he closes his mouth on the suggestion before it can get away. He thinks Connor's gay, and before Christmas he was sure there was something between them, but now's not the time to get started on that.


	2. Chapter 2

            The next time he finds Connor half-asleep over the ADD, he thinks that maybe he should drag him to the bunk rooms; and then he wonders how many nights Connor's spent at home lately, and thinks about what he owes him, and decides to go one better. He knows where Connor's flat is, thanks to anomaly shouts at odd hours of the day, so he picks up his car keys and persuades Connor away from the detector, summons a technician to take over, and piles Connor into his car.

 

            Connor's block of flats is slightly run-down in a slightly run-down area, but it seems nice enough. Becker parks his car under a streetlight and helps Connor up the stairs. He bumps into an old lady on the way who is very worried for Connor's welfare, claiming he doesn't eat enough, but at least he's got a nice young man to look after him. Becker quietly boggles at this, but gets Connor into his flat and puts the kettle on while Connor explains that that was Mrs Macready and he fixed her computer for free so she could Skype her grandson in Australia on his birthday. Becker is no longer surprised that this is the kind of place that holds a communal New Year's party. He is definitely not surprised that Connor fits right in. Connor's always seemed to want a community around him. People. That kind of thing.

 

            "-we can share," Connor's saying, pottering around his kitchen, making tea. "I'm not going to make you sleep on my sofa. It's lumpy. And we survived before Christmas, yeah?" His sleepy smile is bright.

 

            "Um - yes," Becker says, and his mouth's gone suddenly dry. But he sleeps better that night than he has done for months.

 

***

 

            A week later, Connor takes Becker to the Indian restaurant nearest his flat to buy him dinner – just to say thanks, it’s just a friend thing, just between _friends_ , and if Miss Brown looks at Becker like that again he’s going to have to remind her that her half-sister is dating her ex-boyfriend. The ARC is not an environment in which anyone should be throwing stones about dating, relationships, or peculiar platonic friendships, because in that respect, all of them live in houses made entirely of glass.

 

            And anyway, the invitation to the restaurant comes out of a drink at the pub, which is perfectly acceptable and platonic in a masculine sort of way; better still, it only becomes a meal at the restaurant when it transpires that Connor is such a good customer they’ll knock ten percent off if it isn’t a takeaway. Seeing the maternal Indian lady acting as the head waitress, who appears and berates Connor for a solid five minutes about not dropping by often enough lately, Becker suspects they’re just very glad Connor is leaving his flat and interacting with other human beings. If his neighbours think he’s with the mob, as Connor complained when they came to pick him up in the dead of night before Christmas, they certainly don’t seem to mind.

 

            Connor’s favourite starter is apparently complimentary, and Becker is repeatedly referred to as Connor’s young man. Connor tries to correct them, ears redder than a tomato, but the staff aren’t having it, and Becker finds himself curiously relaxed about it, too. He just laughs, and tells Connor he doesn’t care. It’s not as if he’ll be coming back here, he justifies it to himself, and anyway, he doesn’t at all mind the idea that Connor might be his boyfriend. He’s pretty conclusively established that he’s attracted to Connor, after all. Besides, it’s so obviously an indication of a friendly, nosy interest in Connor’s wellbeing that he’s actually quite pleased. Connor is the sort of person who should have a local restaurant where they know his name, neighbours who recognise his face and care about him. He should be able to be as open as his well-meaning face.

 

            He’s taken a job that means he can’t have the last of those things, and is extremely unlikely ever to have the first two, and Becker often wonders if he really knew what he was doing – early twenties, not even out of university yet, bedazzled by dinosaurs and Nick Cutter. A bare few years later, Connor’s carrying a great deal of grief and the weight of half the world on his shoulders, and Becker wonders if it would have been better to spare him all that. Maybe it would be better if Connor had never had to lose two of his closest colleagues to grisly deaths; if his hardest-won friend hadn’t turned her back and walked away, unable to cope with the situation Connor is far too loyal, and in some ways far too stupid, to leave.

 

            Selfishly, Becker knows that he’s glad Connor is here. If that evening of silent drinking proved anything, it was that Connor is the closest to a real friend Becker has on the ARC team, instead of just a good colleague.

 

            Becker orders a couple of bottles of Tiger beer, and clinks his glass with Connor’s when they arrive. “Cheers, Conn,” he says. “Thanks for inviting me.”

 

            Connor’s smile is shy, and far too sweet and simple for someone who’s seen what he’s seen. “No problem,” he replies. “Any time.”

 

***

 

            “I’m having a movie night,” Connor announces one day.

 

            Becker, powering through his third report in as many hours, is somewhat taken aback, and has to ask him to repeat himself. Connor does.

 

            “Cool,” Becker says, rather stupidly. “Any particular occasion?”  


            “It’s the anniversary of the day I moved in,” Connor says. “I’ve invited Nick, and Jenny, and Danny, and I even invited Miss Wickes, it just slipped out, but she’s nice, so.”

 

            Becker blinks. “Oh.” He shakes himself. “I’ll come if I’m not on duty. Let me know when it is.”

 

            The movie night is a day Becker’s free; Becker goes along and buys a couple of six-packs of beer and some crisps at the corner shop, just in case, and finds that he judged it right. Connor’s ordered a lot of pizza and bought some vodka, which reminds Becker that he is not actually that far off being a student; Claudia and Jenny brought dips and wine, and Miss Wickes brought a lot of painstakingly julienned vegetables and a couple of bottles of mixers, which reminds Becker that they always act in concert, and also that Miss Wickes is a bit square. There’s a small shoal of technicians and scientists who turn up in groups, some with cake, others with garlic bread or alcohol or other bits and bobs; Becker knows a few of the soldiers were invited, but they were mostly on shift. Cutter arrives late, having been struck by a sudden brilliant insight just as he meant to leave, but he’s bought in a cake and dragged along most of a bottle of excellent whisky, so Becker thinks he’s forgiven. Danny arrives at more or less the same time, complaining – with a laugh in his voice – of having been scolded down at the corner shop where he bought more beer. Apparently he revved his engine too loudly, and doesn’t he know that people live here and they need to _sleep_?

 

            “Mr Misra,” Connor says knowledgeably, falling over his own sofa. Becker catches him and hauls him upright. “I’m pretty sure he’s made a note of your licence plate.”

 

            “He what! Why? It’s only seven.”

 

            “Every time you come round here to pick me up for a shout you rev your bloody engine, and you’re obviously not a local. Mrs Jones down the road would have the balls off any local who did that.” Connor straightens his shirt and nods at Becker, adding a fleeting friendly grin. “Thanks, mate.”

 

            “Fair,” Danny grins, and flops down onto the sofa Connor fell over, cracking open a beer and grabbing a slice of pizza. “Right. What are we watching?”

 

            “Star Wars!” Connor says, beaming. “I thought about Jurassic Park, but –”

 

            There’s a general howl from the scientists, the general tenor of which seems to be that they can’t watch Jurassic Park, it’s too inaccurate and it makes them want to throw things at the screen. Becker was once on the receiving end of one of Connor’s patent lectures about all the errors of omission and commission in Jurassic Park, so while he could probably only have pointed out half the inaccuracies or himself, he knows the general style of thing. And while he found Connor’s rant entertaining, he doesn’t think he could stand four or five different versions of it from four or five different scientists at once. Especially because at least two of them would then start an argument.

 

            “I know, I know.” Connor fidgets with the DVD player. “We _all_ know. At least none of you buggers have ever been chased by a velociraptor. Puts that _clever girl_ scene into a bit of a new perspective, right.”

 

            “Because we never get let into the field!” calls one scientist, a spiky Anglo-Chinese woman whose name is – if Becker remembers correctly – Anna.

 

            “Yeah, because I can only watch three troublemakers at once,” Becker finds himself saying. He’d chalk it up to the beer, but he’s only had one, and he’s still nursing his second. “And you lot always tell me you’re going to behave and then you _never do_.”

 

            “Sorry, mate,” Danny grins, at the same time as Jenny draws herself up and glares at Becker: “ _Troublemakers_?”

 

            “I said three troublemakers, Miss Lewis,” Becker says, and flicks a finger up for each following name: “Connor, Quinn, and Cutter. Obviously.”

 

            Cries of outrage from the three named almost drown out the beginning credits, but everyone else is laughing, and Becker finds that he’s grinning, too.

 

            It’s perfectly true, they’re all a bloody nightmare in the field, and it’s worse when he knows – either because Caroline Steel is sending him pissy texts, or because of something that just feels off – that the other ARC team, the one that belongs to the shadow world Becker was born into, is knocking around somewhere. Apparently that team has Confunded Cutter multiple times, which explains more than it doesn’t, but Becker doesn’t like the idea of any of his lot being on the receiving end of any more spells. It makes him even twitchier than usual in the field.

 

            The film actually starts, and Connor comes clambering back over the trays of food and people sprawled over the floor and chairs, and drops down into the space Becker left for him, all bright smile and brighter eyes. “I am _not_ trouble in the field,” he whispers.

 

            Becker grins at him. “Yeah, you are.”

 

            Connor elbows him in the side, but not very hard.

 

            “I didn’t say I minded! Pass the pizza.”

 

 

            Miss Wickes and Miss Brown bow out at the end of the first film, as do a couple of the older technicians. Connor waves them goodbye, thanks them for coming, and cuts the cake – or rather cuts himself, and then delegates the actual cake-cutting to Danny while Becker applies first aid and Jenny scolds. It’s not a bad cut, a question of a plaster and a bit of Savlon just in case, but Connor looks entertainingly sheepish, and when Becker gets back to his seat someone’s poured him a glass of wine and cut him some cake. And Connor’s a warm, solid weight against his side, and actually, Becker likes this film okay, and maybe he could do without the audience, but he’s doing all right here.

 

            Most people pack up to go between the second film and the third; Becker briefly considers leaving, but decides he’s too comfortable to go anywhere right now. He can always kip on Connor’s sofa if necessary; Connor won’t mind.

 

            He settles in with a glass of whisky Cutter poured before he left, and halfway through the film he realises he’s got his arm around Connor’s shoulders. Connor doesn’t seem to mind; he doesn’t even seem particularly surprised, curling a little closer into Becker, resting his head on Becker’s shoulders. Quinn has the cheek to raise his eyebrows; Becker raises one back, daring him to say anything, and gets nothing but a drunk (yet harmless) grin. Quinn’s pissed, Becker notes, but it’s not a problem yet.

 

            It’s dark, and everyone’s attention is on the screen. The barracking from earlier has settled down a bit, now there are fewer people here and they’re all tired. No-one can really see that he’s got his arm around Connor – at least, they’d have to turn round and squint into darkness lit only by the flickering screen and the steady glow of streetlamps filtered through Connor’s lousy curtains if they wanted to, and they aren’t doing anything of the kind. But Becker thinks that even if they did, he wouldn’t care. 

 

            Nearly everyone else leaves at the end of the last film, except for Danny, who’s asleep on the sofa and proves difficult to move. Normally, Becker would be tempted to just dump him in a taxi, but Connor lives four floors up and Becker is unsteady enough on his feet that he’s not completely sure of his own ability to just heave Danny over his shoulder, trot down four floors and locate a taxi. Especially given that Danny’s tall, bony and inconvenient; he’d probably wake up halfway through and be sick. And Becker likes these jeans too much to subject them to that.

 

            “He can’t drive home like this,” Connor yawns, and goes to fetch a glass of water. Becker locates a blanket, and hauls more of Danny onto the sofa and under the blanket, pulling off his shoes as he goes. Connor brings a bucket and some painkillers along with the water – he’s a lot more considerate than Becker would be – and leaves them on the rickety coffee table which is propped up by a textbook under its dodgy leg.

 

            Becker lets out a yawn of his own.

 

            “ _You_ can’t drive home like this,” Connor tells him, standing very close and peering into his face, and Becker can’t help but laugh a little.

 

            “Wasn’t planning on it, Conn. Mind if I sleep on your floor?”

 

            Connor blinks at him. “Don’t be daft, mate. I’ve got a big enough bed we can share.  We managed before, didn’t we?”

 

            “Yeah,” Becker manages, feeling a little like something’s choking him.

 

            So that’s how he ends up spending the night in Connor’s bed, half-dressed and (for about the first fifteen minutes) wholly aware of every inch between him and Connor. But then he falls asleep, and actually, he hasn’t slept so well since the last time he slept in Connor’s bed.

 

***

 

            Danny has to be dragged off the sofa by his ankles in order to wake him up, which Becker does not find particularly surprising. He also takes a great deal of pleasure in doing it. The garbled swearword Danny lets out when his head bounces off the carpeted floor is possibly the best part.

 

            “Wake up, sunshine,” Becker says.

 

            “Fuck you too,” Danny moans, putting a feeble hand to his head. “Oh, Christ.”

 

            “Feeling old?” Becker snipes, secure in the knowledge that Danny has more than ten years on him or Connor, and also that he’s already taken painkillers for his comparatively minor hangover and is beginning to feel better. Danny looks like hell; vaguely green and more than a little nauseous.

 

            “ _Bleeding_ hell,” Danny says, sitting upright. “Oh god, the room’s spinning.”  


            “Bucket,” Becker says informatively, handing over this key item. “Water and painkillers next to you. Connor’s making bacon sandwiches.”  


            “I don’t think I can eat,” Danny groans.

 

            “Rubbish,” Becker says bracingly. “Bit of food, lot of water, paracetamol, maybe a bit of a run – you’ll feel right as rain in no time, Quinn.”

 

            Danny peers blearily up at him. “This is revenge, isn’t it,” he says eventually. “What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

 

            Becker grins, and summons up his mental list of longstanding grievances with Danny Quinn. “Well, for a start –“

 

            “Uh,” Connor yells from the kitchen, “I think I might have set something on fire? Oh. Shit.”

 

            Becker launches himself across the flat, to find that while the bacon is sizzling merrily and smoking a bit, it isn’t even a little on fire, and Connor is grinning at him curiously wickedly.

 

            “What are you playing at?” Becker demands, not very seriously.

 

            “Lay off Danny, he’s suffering enough,” Connor says.

 

            “And I’m enjoying making him suffer more,” Becker reasons, grinning back at Connor. “He’s such a bloody nightmare in the working day, I don’t see why…”

 

            “Just leave him alone,” Connor says comfortably, nudging Becker with his shoulder. “You can have first sandwich if you do.”

 

            “Deal,” Becker says, suddenly a bit short of breath. It’s not a very big kitchen, he realises now, and Connor pottering around it in his dressing gown takes up a surprising amount of room.

 

            He could say something now, Becker thinks suddenly. He could say something, and if it failed, pass it off as being a bit fuzzy from the night before – say something quickly, before Quinn got back on his feet -

 

            There are obvious costs, even if Connor doesn’t say no. Dating a colleague wouldn’t be the most sensible thing Becker’s ever done, and it might not be easy, finding time for each other. But Becker remembers what it felt like last night, his arm tucked around Connor and Connor leaning into him, remembers how warm that felt. He wants more of that.

 

            And there’s been something between the two of them for a while. Becker knows there’s no use denying that.

 

            “Conn,” he says slowly, and then, when Connor triumphantly drops two slices of bacon onto a buttered slice of bread, he blurts it out: “Would you like to go out, some time? With me? On a date?”

 

            _Smooth_ , Becker, he curses himself – those halting half-sentences might be the least elegant way he’s ever phrased an invitation - but Connor’s grin is brighter than the sun off ski slopes, and he looks like he can’t believe his luck.

 

            “Yeah,” Connor says simply. “I’d like that.”

 

            When Danny gets it together enough to stagger into the kitchen, some of the bacon is turning very crispy, that first sandwich is getting pretty cold, and Connor and Becker are kissing.

 

            “Did I miss something?” Danny demands, squinting at them.

 

            Becker shuts the kitchen door in his face, and Connor only laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

            Their first date is the new James Bond film, because Becker will enjoy poking holes in everything, and Connor has confessed to several folders of mock blueprints for Q’s designs, most of which are covered in gleeful notes about how the design is physically impossible, and some of which are being cannibalised for anomaly tech. They have time to get drinks and popcorn before they go in, and there’s something quietly intoxicating about the simplicity of it, something that Becker wants to hang on to with both hands. Connor keeps glancing at him and smiling, and it’s just so good to see him smile that Becker can’t look away.

 

            The film’s pretty good. They sit together in a couple of decent seats near the back, and it’s not so full that Becker can’t snigger in all the places where Daniel Craig does something physically impossible, or alternatively makes a slip that should have got him killed. Connor squirms every time Q’s designs are physically impossible, and sometimes he leans over another inch or two to explain to Becker, sotto voce, how this design or that is like tech Connor’s testing, or even using in the field, or how that would definitely blow up in Bond’s face if he tried it.

 

            Quite a lot of his designs have blown up in Connor’s face when he tries them, but Becker doesn’t feel the need to point that out; he just drapes his arm over the back of Connor’s chair and relaxes.

 

            Some stupid kid makes as if he’s going to say something to the pair of them on the way out, but a quick glare puts paid to that, and Becker’s fast enough to make sure that Connor doesn’t have to know. His tolerance for people annoying Connor has always been very low, and now, he’s finding, it’s subterranean.

 

            They get a drink before going their separate ways, and the waitress tells them they make a very handsome couple. Connor looks pleased, but blushes and stammers like nobody’s business; Becker just grins and thanks her.

 

            He likes this. For once, he’s pretty sure what he’s doing is right.

 

***

 

            Becker’s heard a lot from Jenny – mostly muttered under her breath – about the destructive effect anomalies have on relationships, and their invariably poor timing. He also once had to retrieve Miss Brown from a date because an anomaly had opened up on the House of Commons roof and her presence was urgently required, and had therefore heard Miss Brown’s remarks on the same subject, none of which had been at all sotto voce, and most of which had borne eloquent witness to the years she’d spent working with the army.

 

            Back then he’d thought Miss Brown’s eloquence was unparalleled – there was something about the way she managed to combine crudity with sheer imagination, when he never managed to rise much above a little Anglo-Saxon - but now, hearing his phone go off with that specific tone that meant a call from the ARC just as he’d got Connor’s shirt off, he feels like he could easily outdo her.

 

            “Aw, no,” Connor moans, and scrabbles for his own phone, currently playing the Imperial March from his back pocket.

 

            “I’m going to kill it,” Becker announces, pulling his own phone from the jacket hooked over a chair in the corner of the room. “Sorry, Conn, but whatever’s responsible for this, I’m killing it.”

 

            Connor only gives a distracted murmur, already on the phone – by the sounds of it, with the technician manning the ADD.

 

            “Becker,” Becker says curtly into his phone, having answered its fretful ringing. “Miss Brown?”

 

            “Oh, finally,” Claudia Brown says. “I thought you were never going to pick up your bloody phone. What are you doing, anyway? No, don’t answer that –“

 

            Becker closes his mouth.

 

            “- I don’t care. We have an anomaly in Leicestershire. It seems to be of long standing, or at least it’s opened several times before, on a farm. They seem a bit sheepish about it, so god knows what exactly has come out of it before, but anyway, now they’d quite like some help with the embol – emboli – _thing_ in their fields. So get off your arse and get into the ARC!”

 

               “Yes ma’am.”

 

            “Quinn’s gone to find Connor.”

 

            “That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” Becker says, “I know exactly where he is.”

 

            “Oh. Good. Well, I’ll see you here in half an hour, no more.”

 

            Claudia rings off, and Becker stares at his phone and swears.

 

            “What?” Connor asks, and he now looks a bit uncertain.

 

            “We have to go to Leicestershire,” Becker says, eliding the fact that he’s going to have to do some interesting things to the speed limit to get them to the ARC in half an hour. “Now.”

 

            “It’s half past ten at night,” Connor protests, a little feebly; if he’s been talking to the technician he knows exactly what Claudia’s orders are, and Becker will give Claudia this, she may look soft and gentle but when she says _jump_ she damn well expects you to ask _how high_.

                                                                                                                     

            Possibly after jumping.

 

            “I haven’t got any of my kit here,” Connor says, a little mournfully. Becker reflects on the number of anomalies Connor has turned up to without so much as a spare toothbrush, and decides that he probably isn’t referring to the gadgets and laptops he carries with him constantly; apart from anything else, Connor’s laptop is definitely in the messenger bag outside.

 

            “We’ll have to fix that,” he says, and pulls a couple of t-shirts and spare pairs of boxers and socks from his drawers and shoves half of the clothes at Connor. “Stick ‘em in your bag. There’s a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, too.”

 

            “Okay,” Connor says, and rushes out of the room to get everything in place.

 

            They make it to the ARC in thirty-five minutes, and are off to Leicestershire in forty-five. It takes about fifteen for Connor to get the first call from the anomaly team asking if it’s really true that he was at Becker’s, and are they finally going out now. Becker waits for the interrogation to begin, mostly resigned to the fact that the two of them will be the chief source of gossip for the next week or so.

 

            “What are your intentions for Connor Temple?” Nick Cutter demands, at one-thirty in the morning, after he has just almost been stamped into the ground by something large and grumpy that Connor assures Becker is a) called an embolotherium and b) mostly harmless.

 

            “Are we talking long, short or medium-term here?” Becker demands in return, accidentally on purpose losing his grip on Cutter’s arm. “Because mostly I intend to date him, but I can be more specific. Sorry, professor.”

 

            Cutter looks a bit green, possibly because of the ‘specifics’ Becker mentioned but has no intention of discussing – Cutter has a strange streak of prudery – but possibly also because Becker has just dumped him on his arse into a field the herd of embolotheriums have crapped all over.

 

            Jenny Lewis laughs her head off at Cutter’s face and then refuses to share a car with him. (Understandably. Embolotherium shit stinks.) Instead, she claims the spare seat in the car Becker’s driving, which gives her the opportunity to interrogate Connor much more thoroughly about his relationship with Becker, Finn eavesdropping diligently the entire time.

 

            Becker’s always thought she was really the one to watch.

 

***

 

            “Everyone knows,” Connor says, looking torn between delight, shock and mortification. “Everyone knows. I got a call from _Abby_ this morning.”

 

            Becker chokes on his coffee. He desperately needs it. Having allowed Connor to drag him to Oxford at an ungodly hour to attend a conference both Connor and Cutter were going to, he is trying very hard not to fall asleep, and even the sight of Connor geeking out over posters and heroically restraining himself from saying anything indiscreet is not keeping him awake. He’s not even supposed to be here; he’s only slept six hours in the last forty-eight. But Connor asked nicely, and pointed out that Ditzy, who had been rostered on to trail Connor and Cutter around and keep them out of trouble and/or Helen Cutter’s clutches, was very conspicuous and not very good at pretending to be a conference attendee. Claudia conceded that this was true, and then audibly thanked God that Blade Richards was no longer around to be rostered on for this kind of work, as he was even worse in that regard. This had been notable only for the fact that Becker saw Lorraine Wickes open her mouth as if she were about to defend the departed and unlamented Blade, who was a walking problem, and close her mouth blushing; with this information in hand, he fully expects to clean up on the office pool regarding her new boyfriend’s identity.

 

            So Becker’s here, at the conference, present in his capacity as Connor’s boyfriend and – whenever asked about his own studies, as he has contrived to dress in a fashion Connor describes as ‘posh grad student’ – talking a lot of shit about warfare and strategy in the early medieval Welsh Marches, which was his undergrad dissertation topic, and which he still knows enough about to pretend that he’s doing a Master’s or something. He keeps having to ask Connor questions about the papers and posters being presented, because he understands almost none of them, or why Cutter is avoiding that one woman in tweed, or why he keeps rumbling at that particular presentation. But right now, he wants to know why or how Abby Maitland – who is, to the best of his knowledge, currently working for Lester’s shadow ARC and living out life as a Muggleborn witch – has contacted Connor. The two of them had been close once, but that was before the ARC had split along Muggle-magical lines, leaving Claudia Brown to pick up the bits of a shattered team.

 

            “I didn’t know you two were still in touch,” Becker says, sneezing the last of the coffee he inhaled.

 

            Helpfully, Connor showers him with paper napkins. Becker grabs a selection and wipes his face indiscriminately.

 

            “We aren’t really,” Connor admits. “At least. I hadn’t heard from her since…” A shadow crosses his face. “A very long time.” His face brightens, and Becker is relieved to see it. “Anyway! She was really pleased for us, and asked me loads of nosy questions about you.”

 

            Becker grins. “You didn’t tell her anything too bad, I hope.”  


            “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Connor retorts happily. He knocks back the rest of his coffee, which is so sweet Becker can’t stomach the taste. “But she seems happy and that’s good. I was worried about her.”

 

            “I know,” Becker says, and catches Connor’s hand and squeezes gently for a second.

 

            Connor smiles at him with all of his face, then he stares past Becker and the smile drops off his mouth. “Oh god.”

 

            “What?” Becker turns around to find that the woman in tweed has now cornered Cutter, and they are having what might be termed a spirited exchange of views – or, if they were anywhere other than an academic conference, a flaming bloody row.

 

            “That’s Professor Elizabeth Harrington,” Connor says, in tones of one who has seen his doom. “Professor Cutter thinks her theory of tyrannosaurid hunting is a load of bollocks, he even wrote a paper about it based on – you know –“

 

           Becker does know. It’s the only time in his entire tenure at the ARC that he has successfully requisitioned and used a tank. Several tanks, in fact, as there were several of the offending creatures. He just nods, instead of sighing in reminiscence.

 

           “- which he obviously can’t publish, and Jenny and Claudia _specifically_ told me to keep him away from her,” Connor says despairingly.

 

          Becker downs his coffee and squares his shoulders. “Right then, Conn. Once more unto the breach.”

 

            “Before the professor does something stupid,” Connor agrees, and his grin is so giddy it fills Becker with warmth which lasts all the way through Cutter calling them a pair of interfering busybodies, Harrington calling them the pasty-faced lackeys of a Kafka-esque state, and the angry spiel Becker gets when he has to literally drag Cutter over to the other side of the room while Connor appeases Harrington.

 

            “Could be worse,” Connor whispers ten minutes later as he slips into the next session and finds Becker sitting where he can hem Cutter in against a wall and kick him if he looks like going off again. “I think we got away with it.”

 

            “We’ll manage,” Becker says, smiling back at Connor’s conspiratorial grin. “One way or another.”

             


End file.
